Binary
by CuttleMeFish
Summary: They call him The Hacker because his partner is The Coder. The story of rebellion leader Alfred Jones-Kirkland and his husband, hacker and sniper Arthur Kirkland-Jones, as they fight against The Nexus with help from members of the Underground Resistance.
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**Warnings: **Implied M!preg. Mentions of a dystopian future. Some discussions of sex.

**0.**

_Day 8,395_

Alfred can't remember a time before The Nexus.

He holds his infant son in his arms and panics because Peter's birth represents more than his union to Arthur. Peter's birth now represents _two_ generations come full circle into the same point of origin – The Nexus. It's like the same biography written with the same ink, botched by the same tears and the same blood. And it's terrifying that here he holds the most precious code in the world – it is a code he's made from his own DNA – and he can't protect Peter, much less promise him freedom.

Alfred and his brother Matthew were also born into the resistance, back when a child being born into the resistance was a _good_ thing. In fact, Matthew and Alfred have even died for the resistance. The only difference being that Alfred came back.

He came back to hold Peter in his arms. This he knows to be true. Alfred can't imagine there being something more important in his life than this moment. This must be why he's here. Somehow that doesn't seem like enough, though, no matter what Arthur keeps telling him.

Maybe that's why that night, as Arthur sleeps, he hushes Peter and sets to work.

He slips the baby's tiny sock off and after an hour of tinkering Alfred admires the barcode newly minted over the pink skin of his newborn son. Peter gurgles at him, so much saliva running down his mouth that Alfred wonders how it's possible that Peter hasn't drowned.

With his finger he traces the barcode. _This_, he tells himself, is the most precious code in the world. But he can't quite force himself to believe it, not when a single twitch from Peter's pink, pink cheeks is so much more beautiful than the black ink on his foot.

_Day 8,000_

Arthur Kirkland could remember the years before the Nexus because he was three when the world fell into darkness.

The memories are now like fuzzy binary lines converging together into a single point that takes him to the present. But he can remember and that's far more than many others can say right now.

It surprises him to know this – that he can bond with some members of the resistance more than others by the privilege of age, a matter of months or even weeks sometimes. This is a privilege, he is told. It's a privilege because Arthur can remember freedom.

When Alfred is most stressed, he _too _reminds Arthur of this through gritted teeth, almost as if he is holding back his spit. Sometimes Arthur wishes Alfred would spit on him so that he could smash his fist into his partner's pretty face. Maybe, he tells himself, that might take away some of his guilt for knowing _what_ Alfred is fighting for better than Alfred will ever understand.

If Arthur is truthful, though, he's not sure he can remember freedom. He was so little when he was first handed the weight of his shackles.

Hell, just a few years ago, he'd have sworn that he was _free_! – If he wants to get technical, he's _still _free. That's why he's a hacker and not just _any _hacker either but The Hacker.

Now, _now_ he's not so sure he's free. He's married to the resistance. The symbol of his promise lies tattooed on his ring finger, two thin lines carved in black ink with diminutive coding that only he can read. There lies his signature. He's sworn his life, his body, his soul to the resistance: in the good times and the bad times, in sickness and in health.

It's only unfortunate that all his privilege comes with more bad times and sickness than any actual sense of _freedom_. And still, even though he can break the code, he doesn't.

Sometimes he wonders why…

_Day 6,579_

Arthur Kirkland is first approached by Alfred Jones one Friday evening at a bar and told that "rumor says you've got fast fingers," which naturally results in Arthur punching Alfred in the face.

"It wasn't a perverted thing, I swear!" Alfred tells him later as he rubs at his jaw. In his pocket there is a flash drive with a code. It's the most beautiful code Arthur will ever _see_, but he hasn't seen it yet. Alfred needs to make sure he sees it. "I'm looking for a hacker," Alfred whispers, leaning into Arthur as he pretends to buy a drink. A fifty is slid into the bartender's hand. "I hear you're the best, and, well, I'm in real need of the best."

Arthur sighs. He takes his drink and prepares to leave. "I don't think you could afford me."

Alfred flinches, but recovers quickly.

"If you really are the best, then you can set your price; no negotiations." He coughs into his hand, "That is, if you really are the best."

Arthur smirks to himself. "I am."

"Then you'd be up to taking a quick look at what I have in my pocket, yeah?"

Arthur's smile falls.

"Hey, hey! I already said this isn't a perverted thing. But I really can't—oh, you're gonna punch me after I say this, aren't you?"

Already Arthur has fisted his hand into a tight ball. "Maybe, but that's not half as bad as what I might do if you're wasting my time, which, for your benefit, I hope you're not. There's more than one reason people say I have fast fingers. I'm afraid I'm a little more than trigger happy."

"I'm not wasting your time, but I really need you to come with me to my hotel room so I can show you what I have in my pocket."

Arthur shakes his head, amused.

"That's not how I do business, darling. If you have something you want me to see, you bring it out right now. We'll head to the back of the bar and I can bring out my equipment, too, and we can go to town."

"That doesn't really work for me, hacker," Alfred sighs, growing impatient and nervous.

"Well, aren't you something? Is this how you get off? Wasting important people's time? – Alright. Fine, fine," he sighs, noting with alarm that a few people in the room are beginning to stare at them. Arthur leans toward the young man in front of him until their breaths mingle in a single roll of warmth, "Let's assume I am considering this, what's my motivation?"

Alfred blinks, stepping back to regain some semblance of personal space. Not that there's any in the crowded bar, and a girl bumps into him before staggering away drunkenly. "I'm sorry. What?"

"My motivation, darling," Arthur lets one of his fingers play circles on the other's chest. "My incentive. My reason for not punching you in the face and walking away _right_ now."

"Oh god," Alfred moans, "You think I'm a pervert. You seriously do. Listen, just, just feel my pocket, alright?"

Green eyes fall on Alfred's crotch. "Uh, no thanks."

"Not that pocket. My jacket. Right side. Go on. Slip your hand in. You'll see I'm serious."

So Arthur slips his hand in. His fingers slide over the warm plastic, touching the short snub at the end.

"Is it full?"

Alfred nods. "Oh yeah. It's definitely full. Now will you come with me to my hotel room?"

"It's still going to cost you around 500 an hour, darling."

"That's fine. Let's just get out of here, yeah? – I think there are agents in here. I'm not really looking to get thrown into jail on my first recruiting session, you know?"

Arthur nods, slipping his hand into his own pocket to bring out a cigarette. He lights it as they walk.

"Sure, sure, dear. Just let me head to the back to get my equipment. Oh, by the way, I don't really _do _team-work or taking sides for that matter. I'm more of an opportunist, really. I play for whatever side offers me the most cash—a general warning, if you will."

_Day 6,855_

It's a mistake. The first time they have sex, it's a mistake. And not the unintentionally intentional one where there's so much sexual tension in the air that it takes a very stiff erection and a couple of hard surfaces to cut through it because Alfred, even if he's only a bit short of nineteen, understands _those_ kind of mistakes. It's not even the drunken one-night stand kind of mistake either. Arthur has a basic familiarity with those, which is kind of upsetting to Alfred the next morning only because Arthur is Alfred's _bro_, like friendly bro, and it's never cool to find out your bro has such low self-esteem that he thinks he needs to be sloshed to get, well, laid…? – Whatever.

It's not even good sex. Alfred thinks he knows good sex.

But, it's not _bad_ sex, either! Arthur knows bad sex. He's so familiar with it that he can taste it from the first single dip of a tongue in his mouth. It is just sex that isn't sexy, he states. And that's fine because Arthur doesn't really find Alfred sexy – not in the 'let's shag' kind of way. Though maybe a little bit in the 'why are your abs better than mine?' jealous affirmation.

"It was life-affirming sex," Alfred coughs into his hand, slicing through an omelet the next morning. Arthur thinks he sounds very mature and that just makes the whole thing even more awkward because this has been sex between friends, as in friends that sometimes like to tease each other with innuendo but never would have acted on it were it not for that single string of fear that tied them together just last night. "Yeah, that's it! Life-affirming sex."

Arthur nods, feeling almost nauseous. "I don't know what the bloody fuck that even means, if I'm honest, but hell if I'll be the one to take away the only excuse we have… Not that we need one, mind you. Having sex happens. Sometimes it just happens."

Alfred almost wants to add that in his world sex doesn't just happen. There's never been much room for sex in the _underground_. Sex is for procreation, because the resistance used to be small and now it's big thanks to a lot of "sacrificing." And now here he is having a good talk with Arthur about recreational sex. It's all very unsettling. He shouldn't have time for sex that _just happens_. Somehow that should mean he's not doing his job…

"Yeah," he gulps. "Yeah, it happens."

Arthur laughs, "I mean nothing's changed! We're still the same people. It's not like we even enjoyed it."

Alfred tips his head, "now that you mention it, I don't think I even remember all that much outside of you telling me that your face was pressed up against that chain fence and that it stung like hell."

"Oh god," Arthur's face blanches, "do I still have the pink marks on my face?"

"Nah. Well, you do have this humongous bruise on your cheek, but it looks like you got punched in the eye and not like you had sex up against a fence and slammed half your face into it repeatedly."

"So you bashed my head into a wall," Arthur folds a napkin, trying to act gentlemanly as their hostess, an old lady still working part-time for the resistance, brings them another plate full of food. "That's our story."

"No, the _agents_ bashed your head into a wall," Alfred whispers and drinks half his glass of orange juice in one long sip. "That's our story."

"How did we go from fence to wall?"

"Who cares? Let's just go with my plan. No one's gonna believe I smashed your face into a wall, or fence, or anything."

"And why not? Besides, how are we supposed to explain our get-away if suddenly they actually apprehended us, huh, genius?"

"Because you're my partner! – Why would I beat the shit out of my best friend?"

Arthur blinks, "I—y—you—I'm your best friend?"

Alfred sighs through his nostrils in that way that always annoys Arthur because he thinks it sappy. But Alfred does it anyway, his whole face melting into a smile. "Yeah. You don't just run from coppers and dogs for like a mile and then have sex against a fence with acquaintances, ya know?"

_Day 1,790_

When Alfred is little, he thinks that living underground means they're molepeople.

He thinks that the world around them is the underground and there must be something above it all, so he's always looking up.

All he can see, though, are the heavy metal plates that have lined the _above_ all his life. They're curved, only opening at certain times of day for certain locations to let in these shiny streams of light, far brighter than any glowing lamp he's ever seen! – And he always runs. He runs trying to reach the opening to take a single peek at the world above, to get even one glimpse of what the people _above_ ground look like.

Then one day when he's tired and teary-eyed and huffy his father shows him a picture of something called _sky._ And Alfred's heart breaks because there's nothing behind the big metal planks. Nothing at all. Just all this blue stuff that's not even water, and these fluffy white things that aren't even cotton, and this giant light bulb, but it's not even a pretty yellow because it's all red, like an angry, itchy eye.

_Day 7,695_

People work in duos. Twos are better than one. It is this dynamic that defines an individual.

So they call him The Hacker because his partner is The Coder. Though if he's honest with himself, he's been _The_ Hacker for longer than Alfred has been The Coder, which ultimately debunks the entire mythos of their names, but everyone underground has pseudo names anyway, and he'd much rather be The Hacker than Felikz' unfortunate The Diva or even Kiku's awkwardly sounding The Designer.

Not that Antonio's The Boss is any better.

For that matter, he's also The Sniper on days when he's particularly bored, and Alfred is also The Myth on days when people are particularly desperate for a dream. No one has to know _that_, though. Like no one has to know that they're sleeping together, as in shagging every single night, which wouldn't be allowed if Matthew was still alive because Arthur is one of the _fertile _ones, except he's not a female so his fertility is caused by a mutation, part of the radiation from the explosions incurred near his hometown when he was a babe, and any offspring he might have is not only suspect but could even be diseased.

Besides, the resistance is no place for children. None at all. They still have some, but they can't afford any more, especially not from one of its top agents.

But Arthur thinks details are overrated underground anyway. No one has to know what happens between Arthur and Alfred, even if this mindset is naïve because Arthur and Alfred are still The Hacker, The Sniper, The Myth, and The Coder and being horny or bored or young won't change _that_. Ever.

_Day 6,610_

"Oh, it's you," Arthur stands aside to let Alfred into his apartment. Arthur walks behind his tall, broad-shouldered guest and wraps his arms around his own torso. "What can I do for you, coder?"

"I have something for you, hacker," Alfred smirks, setting down the laptop he brings with him on the first available surface, which just so happens to be on the kitchen mantel, right next to Arthur's burnt scones. Arthur watches from afar, stooping low to pet his Scottish fold. "I need you to break into this computer."

"Do you have my money?" Arthur shrugs, moving past Alfred to the computer.

"Man, straight shooter, huh? – Can't do a friend a favor?"

Arthur snorts, "you and I are _not_ friends. Now, do you have my money?"

"Reach into my pocket."

Arthur just chuckles, elbowing Alfred away. "Your trousers don't even have pockets. Hand me my glasses?"

"You seem obsessed with my pants. Jacket pocket."

Arthur scoffs, "I am not obsessed with your pants, tosser."

"Just my trousers?"

Alfred says this as he reaches slowly into the inside of Arthur's jacket. He feels the inside pocket, finding the glasses. It is in that moment that he wonders why he'd never noted the strong scent of vanilla that permeates all of Arthur. He breathes it in, relaxing as his stomach's knots untie and as his muscles unwind. It's the smell of his mother, Alfred decides.

The case slides smoothly into Arthur's hand.

"Thanks. Well then, let's see what you have here, shall we?" he murmurs, slipping on his glasses.

_Day 7,000_

Arthur thinks the act of toppling a government is nothing but a painful extraction, which can be further deconstructed into simple subtraction because first there's one, then there's none. Or so it should be.

Except it can _never _be that simple because Arthur is now officially part of the resistance, as in full-time, and knows better. There can never _not_ be one. Or two, really.

It all must exist in binaries, or in zeroes and ones. Good guys and bad guys. Good times and bad times.

It's all the same to Arthur. Binary code was his first language, after all.

_Day 9,125_

Arthur learns that his phone is a formidable weapon. It's hard typing with a toddler on your lap, but it's a lot easier to thumb a keypad as he walks. It helps to bounce the blonde, blue-eyed baby on the sling over his chest anyway, and the movement keeps Peter from reaching out for his phone or glasses to try and shove them into his teething mouth.

"What do you think Peter?" Arthur coos, stopping only for a moment to smear a soothing gel over the baby's bright red gums. He continues pacing the length of the bedroom. "Shall we exchange their kidnapping plans for a cupcake recipe now or wait for Daddy to give the orders? Hmm. Well, Papa _is_ bored and who knows when your Daddy will get here. Let's see. Chocolate or red-velvet?"

"Is that the menu for this evening?" Alfred presses a hand to Arthur's hip, kissing his cheek before cupping Peter's chubby face. Arthur jumps at that before relaxing. "Hey there, champ! I'm kinda liking the idea of some red-velvet."

"Not for us. For our little friends," Arthur replies, showing his husband his phone's screen.

"Go with the chocolate, then," he yawns, dropping his jacket on the bed.

Arthur's fingers fly wildly over the keyboard.

"Done," he beams, pocketing his phone. "Here, why don't you take Peter for a bit, hmm? – My shoulders are beginning to ache."

_Day 6,704_

"It's a suicide mission," Arthur whispers months later when Alfred shows him a set of plans and a suitcase full of hundred dollar bills. It's an impressive array of technology, math, and money. His fingers twitch as he counts the money, barely looking up at Alfred.

"No, no," Alfred gulps, almost rushing to grab for Arthur's hands. "It's not. I mean, it won't be. That's why… that's why you're going to teach me how to hack into this system, get what I need, and leave."

"You're insane," Arthur shakes his head, already reaching for a cigarette. "Take your money. Speed is not something I can teach you, much less coach you on. This is insane. Why are you even doing a two-person mission on your own? I thought everyone had a partner. Isn't that what you told me?"

Alfred coughed into his hand. A pink flush lines his cheeks like tiny red saucers. "Well, you said you didn't do team work."

Arthur blinked. "What?"

"You said you didn't do team work—"

"I also told you not to think of me as a recruit. Is this how you've been getting money to pay for my services? – You'd been putting me down as a recruit! Alfred Jones, you're lucky my gun is in another room!" Arthur huffed, fingers combing through his hair. "How did you even get away with that?"

"I just kept telling them you liked remote work."

There is a long silence between them before Arthur stands and pulls out his cellphone.

Arthur likes Alfred. It's rare that Arthur might like anyone, especially when the _like_ is not accompanied by a strong urge to fuck. Maybe that's what moves him to action. In a way, Alfred reminds Arthur of himself when he was eighteen, still lost and trying to find himself in the insanity of The Nexus. And he thinks that his role as a hacker is a testament to his inherent rebellion. He has never fitted inside the perfect Nexus and he never will. So here's his chance to be free.

Really free, beyond codes and systems and wires and metal.

Alfred just watches, a cat rubbing its head along his leg.

"I'm not doing this for you," he forewarns. It's true. The more Arthur thinks about it, his reasons for joining Alfred are entirely selfish. It is he that wants Alfred to stay alive because of what Alfred means to him. It is he that wants to join the rebellion, albeit only provisionally because he craves freedom. Alfred nods, leaning forward to listen better. "This is just because—Hello? Lilly? – This is Arthur. Yes. How would you feel about watching Biscuit for me for a few days?"

_Day 9,858_

Arthur can't forgive Alfred. Alfred can't forgive himself.

Peter is four when they leave him with Tino and his partner. He's wide-eyed and scared, clutching tight to his blanket.

Arthur trusts them. More importantly, Alfred trusts them. They're the best team they can spare.

Alfred stands off to the side, fingers flickering with nerves as he tries to ignore the way Arthur is pressing Peter to his chest.

"You're such a good boy, Peter. Such a good boy," Arthur keeps reminding their son. "Papa loves you so much."

For such a little boy, Peter is probably the bravest person Alfred has ever met.

"Daddy loves you, too," Arthur tells Peter because Alfred can't, not without breaking down. "And we're going to come back for you soon. Very soon. And once this is all over, we'll buy you ice cream."

_Day 10,952_

"Dad! Dad, did you see me?"

Alfred flashes a thumbs up at his son, who is all blue eyes and sunshine. He brushes his palms over his thighs, feeling the roughness of his jeans. Next to him, Arthur sits with his thumbs flying wildly across the keyboard of his phone and glasses pressed tight against the bridge of his nose. Their arms barely touch.

"Harder than it looks, huh, babe?" he asks, intermittently staring at the face of the watch on his wrist.

"Papa, Papa, look!"

Arthur blinks, stopping his rapid typing to look up at his son, who now hangs upside down from a high set of monkey bars. He smiles fondly, pressing a kiss to his fingers that he sends to his son through the air. In his mind, he dissects a one. Then a zero. There's nothing, nothing that could ever rival the love he feels for his son. Not even proving his husband wrong.

"You're extraordinary, love," he shouts before turning his attention back to the small lighted screen in front of him. The tip of Arthur's pink tongue peeks at Alfred from between full, plump lips. "Nonsense," Arthur remarks, throwing the phone at Alfred's thighs, "There's no system you can make that I can't break, darling. None."

Alfred picks at the phone, blinking in awe. "I can't. How. This one was supposed to be…"

"Oh darling," Arthur chuckles, "your marriage proposal was far more sophisticated than that thing you just handed me. I hope that's just the prototype. Peter! Peter! – Come along now, love! I believe your Dad is buying us ice cream."

_Day 7,260_

Matthew steals Arthur's heart. To be fair, Matthew steals everyone's heart. He has to – he's the heart of the rebellion.

He's sweet and considerate and he seems to know just what to say to those convalescing through the fatigue of the fight.

When he sits next to Arthur, it's only for a moment, but he whispers a secret in his ear and draws with his fingertips a code over and over on his palm.

_Day 9,487_

"I want to be in love when I marry," Lilly confides to Arthur one evening in the underground. Arthur runs his fingers through her short hair as she plays with Peter, getting him to giggle through his sniffles. Next to Arthur, Alfred stiffens. For the past hour, he's been carrying Peter, trying to get him comfortable enough to nap. It hasn't worked, but of course Lilly would be successful.

She adds, "Like you and Alfred."

Arthur furrows his brows together, "Lilly…"

"I know, I know," she replies as politely as she can, taking hold of her knitting once more. Lilly is more than a fighter. She's The Caretaker. And she's skilled at her job. If it wasn't for Lilly, Arthur's not sure he would have managed those first few months with Peter. For that matter, he's not sure the resistance would have survived those last few months on their tight budget and provisions.

If anyone deserves love, it's Lilly.

"Love," she continues, "We have no time to think about falling in love, finding love, all those things. No time for babies, or anything of the sort."

Arthur feels incredibly guilty as he holds Peter tighter to his chest. Next to him, Alfred rubs down his arm, pressing his chin on top of Arthur's shoulder.

"But that's not forever," Alfred reminds her with a teasing little smile. He winks, "You're a cute girl. One of our men is bound to fall for someone as pretty as you. Don't you worry; we're almost there, too. You won't be alone forever."

"Might as well be," she teases back. "But you two give me hope. A lot of hope. You give everyone a lot of hope."

"Lilly…" Arthur murmurs again, growing all the more uncomfortable as Alfred presses a soft kiss against his jaw. It's meant to be reassuring. All Arthur feels is the way Peter squirms in his arms, already fussy again from his spiking fever.

Alfred takes Peter from him, running in search of The Doctor, whom he's summoned just two days before once Peter first began showing signs of unhappiness. He can only find The Surgeon, though, who is himself in need of some repairs.

When Arthur is sure Alfred is out of earshot, he crawls closer to Lilly.

"Lilly…"

"Arthur?" she asks, surprised. "What is it? – Are you ill, too?"

"No, no," he shakes his head, a knot in his throat tight, so tight he can't breathe. "Lilly, I just. I want you. I just want you to know that I think there's no one more deserving of getting married for love, in love, all of that."

Lilly flushes a bright pink, her nimble fingers working speedily on a new jumper for Peter. "Thanks, Arthur. I, I really do hope someday I'll find someone that loves me just as much as Alfred loves you."

"Lilly," Arthur gulps, taking one of her hands, "Lilly, I just want you to know – I think you should know… Alfred didn't marry me because he loved me, Lilly."

She frowns, almost crawling away from him, "what do you mean? – Oh, Arthur, Alfred loves you so much! Everyone knows that! We can _all_ see it!"

"Yes, yes," Arthur sighs, biting his bottom lip, "he loves me now. I love him now. But Lilly, Alfred and I didn't get married because we were in love with each other. That. That came later."

**Next… 1**

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**Author Note:** Like it so far? Hate it? Consider leaving a comment. No pressure, though! Just fyi, though, I even accept comments in French and Spanish and maybe Italian and Portuguese. And if you leave it in another language, that's cool, too. C=


	2. 1

**1. Food Politics**

They said they were an-hungry; sigh'd forth proverbs,

That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat,

That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not

Corn for the rich men only; with these shreds

They vented their complainings.

- **Shakespeare**, _Coriolanus, _Act I, Scene I

There's hunger in the village.

The villagers are being punished, Alfred explains on the train.

He only pauses midway through the narrative to hand off a set of fake passports they've engineered. They're praying the ink color is still blue, because there were rumors it was now purple, just a shade lighter, but they didn't have the money for purple – or not enough to bet on a rumor. So this is it. This is the test-run.

During the transaction, their brains shut down, and there's darkness, and they're fumbling through awkward phrases and flickering conversations, practiced-enough to seem natural but never be quite spontaneous.

The officer watches them through his dark goggles, possibly testing their vital signs. Arthur's not sure until he sees the metal encasing around the soldier's head move mechanically, just a _tic-tic_, and then he hears a zoom, and he can almost see the way the goggles blare a soft, humming red. So he eases his breath, pushing the puffs of air from his stomach to his throat trying to regulate the wild thumping of his heart. But the goggles aren't focused on him. They're focused on Alfred, on the light curve of his shoulders where skin and muscles are bunching together in a knot of tension.

Arthur is sure they could talk their way out of this. But he'd rather not take his chances. He touches Alfred's hand, sliding his fingers under his palm to press his thumb pad over the pulse of his wrist. It's like a flare of heat before he notes the waiver of movement in the officer's shoulders, like he's about to move forward, hand popping to grab for them. And he leans close, pressing both knees and lips to Alfred's own.

He leaves a coy kiss to the edge of salty lips, making sure to lick away the one bead of sweat resting there. Alfred tastes so human. Arthur just winks.

The officer falters back, handing them their passports.

When he's gone, they sit idly side by side, holding the small rectangles in their hands. They don't talk.

Not until Alfred gulps and breathes fast and hard. "T—thanks."

Arthur shrugs, looking out the window. His stomach is still coiling, but he tries to appear at ease, drawing away lines of dust from the window. "Don't thank me. Just learn to regulate yourself. Last thing we need is to be caught just because you were a little _too _excited."

Alfred nods, and for that one moment, well, they're safe.

**.**

The village is not safe, though.

They're being punished for trying to start a small rebellion that only succeeded in killing two agents and forcing their Governor to flee. It's not a big success, but the village has _sacrificed_ in the name of the rebellion.

Alfred explains it all very succinctly, whispering close to Arthur's ear as another police officer wanders down their aisle. He pauses by their side. Almost instantly, Arthur croons out a fake moan, feeling Alfred's teeth tugging at his earlobe.

"No public displays of affection," the police officer growls, and then moves on.

Alfred and Arthur's eyes meet. Then, the narrative continues, like all narratives, really.

The villagers are paying with their stomachs. Soon, they'll be paying with their lives if Arthur and Alfred don't hurry, which will be difficult seeing as the train will only take them through half the journey. But that's not important.

What is important is that Arthur knows the Governor of precinct 19. He wants to tell Alfred this so badly, but he doesn't say a word. Yes, Arthur knows him so very well, like one knows the sting of a brand when it first sears hot flesh. The smell is unforgettable. So are Arthur's feelings of immeasurable regret.

The Governor of precinct 19 is a cruel and selfish man. Arthur knows because before being put in charge of precinct 19, Governor Andreas was in charge of precinct 68, and Arthur knows well about precinct 68 because he once called it home.

It hurts, really. The Nexus has finally become a nexus – a cycle of power and degradation, influence and affluence.

People are being punished at the expense of a man that deserves to die, but won't.

Arthur's not sure he can deal with all the details, so he looks out the window and presses his forehead to the glass. And he thinks, because breaking double codes is risky. But this is their mission. A part of him wants to warn Alfred again, because too many codes broken too soon will inspire suspicion. But this is their mission, Alfred reminds him determinately.

_These people have sacrificed! _

And those that sacrifice are rewarded by the rebellion.

Arthur almost wants to bitterly reply that _everyone _has sacrificed – foes and friends alike. Some have even sacrificed their souls. Just not in name of the rebellion. Yes. Arthur already knows, though, what Alfred will say.

He'll say:

_And that, my friend, marks all the difference._

**.**

Arthur wasn't an unreasonable man, much less a spiteful one, and if he hated the Nexus, then, it wasn't because he believed it inherently evil so much as he believed _it_ – like many things tainted by power – had grown corrupted by desperation.

He was too little when the Nexus was implemented, but he knows the story quite well. Everyone knows the story well. Maybe that's why he wonders how Alfred can bear to read his stupid science fiction novels.

Arthur thinks about the world. He thinks about the Nexus. He thinks about both and wants to punch Alfred in the face.

Their current predicament is based on the mythos of a story that in his mind denotes both human stupidity and intelligence. It's a story about stupidity and faith. And it all reeks of so much sentimentalism and regret that it makes his stomach churn. Still, he thinks about it as he chews on his cheek and watches Alfred read a novel about aliens.

The book is thin, ragged from wear with ripped pages held together in Alfred's hands by his own fingers. Alfred tucks each finished page carefully back into place, eyes wide with excitement as he scans through the next, much in the same way he deconstructs codes before he makes them. If Arthur didn't know better, he'd say the book is an original from whenever books about aliens were still allowed. And it probably is – the resistance loves its aliens.

Aliens are stupid, though. Arthur nods to himself as he drapes his arms around his torso. Aliens are stupid because it's their fault he's stuck under a bridge with Alfred while it snows and the river around them freezes into thick ice. Except for this to be the aliens' fault, they'd have to exist. And they don't, which just makes the situation doubly stupid and triply frustrating. Arthur now just wants to go home. He's done playing superhero. He's done being free.

Freedom is a construction built by the weak to keep themselves sane once they figured out everyone's tied to their shackles and must equally drag along their chains. But he bites his tongue. This would upset Alfred. Arthur doesn't want to upset Alfred, not over aliens. Aliens, after all, are stupid. They don't exist. Not like the pleasure Alfred is deriving from the book he's holding in his hand because that _does _exist, and there are just such few pleasures in the world – so _very_ few – that Arthur doesn't have the heart to rip Alfred's from his palms.

He just leans closer to the heat emanating from his friend's body. He rests his head on Alfred's shoulder, trying to pull him by the arm into Arthur's own coat. Tomorrow, he thinks, they will walk miles to reach a village that doesn't care about freedom so much as it cares about food. But tonight, tonight Arthur will dream about aliens.

"What are you reading?" he hums, trying to pretend to be interested.

"Oh, it's that new novel I was telling you I found. It has cowboys and aliens in it. It's really interesting."

"Oh?" Arthur shuts his eyes, huddling closer as a strong wind slaps him in the face with droplets of ice. "Tell me more."

"So there's this one cowboy, right? And it begins with him sitting in this bar, and he's sharing stories with his buddies…"

Arthur falls asleep, as always, to the excited shatter of Alfred's voice. It's his one reminder in the cold why this isn't as stupid as he likes to pretend. It's not stupid because maybe freedom is an illusion, but loneliness is not. And god, or whatever it is that exists beyond space and time and codes, Arthur can't ever feel quite alone with Alfred around.

**.**

When they reach the village the next day, the food co-op is locked with a double code – one for the door, another for the droids waiting inside with the big lasers and the even bigger guns.

There's so much desperation in the village that Arthur can feel eyes digging into his skull, metaphorical fingers clawing at his back.

It's been two months, and he's surprised the people have held out for so long, except he's not because he's heard stories about people sawing their tables into itty bits of scratchy pulverized wood, thin enough to grab some water and bake into fake _fiber tablets_.

He's see it now too many times in other places. He doubts this little village would be any different.

It makes his stomach pump with acid.

But he can't blame them because there's hunger in the village.

So much hunger that when Arthur breaks the code, the villagers don't give Alfred enough time to create a new one they can control before they rip him out of the way and make a run for the doors of steel, which they open with the ease of rivers crashing into rocks, and the same anger with which they dismantle the obsolete robots inside.

"Hey, hey, wait! Don't just eat it! Not all of it right now!" Alfred tries to appeal to them, laughing nervously before backing away when a woman with a baby hanging on her back elbows him in the face.

Arthur gulps, watching as the people flood into the fortressed barn, shaking the mill down to its rocks. The ground almost moves with them.

A green tablet, square with yellow tips bounces and falls on his shoe. He picks it up and weighs it in his palm. And when a little girl standing by the sidelines looks up at him with bloodshot eyes, and a face too-yellow to hide the indents in her cheeks, he beckons her with a curled finger. She runs over to him, palms pressed together into a bowl.

Alfred watches him drop the table into her palms. He watches her run. Not just run, but even lock her door.

And when the people are done, there are not even gears left of the security bots. There's not even a nail, or a wire. Nothing. So that when Arthur peeks over toward a little boy shoving metal into his mouth, he's not shocked. He simply gulps heart heavy as he feels the emptiness of his hands.

Eating too much in times of famine can lead to more dangerous consequences than eating no food. He thinks of this and the way the body adjusts, always, because there's magic in the way the body expands, the way bodies, even when static, still move and _burn out_.

Arthur brings out his gun and shoots the computer security tablet repeatedly.

There's no hope _in_ the village. There's no hope _for_ it, either.

He can tell because when they passed by the village cemetery, he saw plots waiting to be filled. He wasn't sure if they were depleted of its dead in one last attempt to survive, or if the people are now too tired to fill them, or if they're just there waiting… waiting for the inevitable.

This ransack wasn't loot. It was a last meal. He knows because he's seen it before.

He's seen it before in precinct 68.

Perhaps half the villagers will eat themselves to death. The others will just wait to _not _eat themselves to the grave.

Alfred watches, grabbing at his arm. "Hey, hey, stop! Stop! No. You're going to put them in more danger!"

Arthur simply slips the gun back into his holster, blowing a rebellious strand of blond fringe from his face before he pushes Alfred away, hard and fast. "You think that matters to them? – You think they don't know?"

A few villagers have hidden tablets in their pockets, probably for their younger children, or maybe for themselves. They stare at the pair, eyes red and round with shadows in their cheeks. Their faces are like the covered sky – red eye and black clouds. Alfred thinks they look like zombies, and he gulps, taking a step closer to Arthur, away from them. They move unsteadily with their bodies pulsing haggard from fatigue.

"They know, Alfred. They know they're an example. They were always an example. Not just to everyone else, but to us. To the rebellion."

Alfred stays quiet, feeling small in the looming crowd.

"What good is it to just lock the co-op again? There's no food in there, Alfred. What good is it to give them a code they can use? They didn't _even_ ration it. They just grabbed it all, so as far as I'm concerned, we're doing them a favor."

"Wait, you think The Nexus isn't going to notice one of their machines is not operational anymore? – They'll come back and kill them all, Arthur. Damn it. Each and every one of them because you got impulsive."

"They were always going to die Alfred. At least The Nexus will shoot them through the eyes – fast and quick and relatively painless. It's better than we can do; hunger takes too long."

"No—"

"There's NO food! More is NOT coming. It's done. _They're done_!"

The villagers disperse, some taking their children under their wing before ushering them into their empty houses. None seem too obliged to correct Arthur. It is this empty silence, almost heavy with recognition and acceptance, which makes the bitter taste of bile rise higher up his throat. And then he knows: they're done with this rubbish mortal _freedom_, too.

Alfred's nostrils flare. They expand and close-up as he inhales sharply through his nose. He's all haggard breaths and nervous twitching.

Arthur can see the first jerk of his fist. Thinking about it in hindsight, he could have intercepted the hit if he'd really wanted to – not that he wanted to in that moment. It's the only explanation he can give himself for letting Alfred pummel his face with a fist, once and twice until the air stung as it blew over the open and welting cut of his cheek.

"We could've taught them to grow food," Alfred spits his words, tears clinging to the edge of his eyes. "They could've learned from us and broken the cycle of dependency. We could've helped them, but now we can't. Now we can't! Because they're going to die!"

_They were always going to die, _Arthur bites his tongue and presses his palm over the cut. He reaches around the blood with his fingers, smearing it over half his face like a battle scar. _Always. Everyone dies. It's what humans do…_

"You say that like it's all so easy," he murmurs then, throat heavy with something thick and malleable, "like breaking dependence is just a matter of will, like waking up in the morning or snapping your fingers. Look _around_. The soil is barren. There is no sun. Do you see those metal strips above our heads? If you don't, then just look at their skin! They're not getting any sun. And you want to teach them agriculture? Rogue agriculture at that?"

Alfred is quiet; skin too-tight and his face too-red.

"To dig an underground tunnel and prepare the land like the compound would take longer than they probably have without sustenance." Arthur kicked at the ground, "Shall we discuss rehabilitation? Perhaps only ten percent of them would ever manage to survive the wait-period, and maybe three percent would ever manage to break dependency and process your _precious_ organic food."

"The success we've had at the compound says otherwise," Alfred takes a deep, steadying breath, sniffles now gone and replaced with deep, thick lines on his forehead. Each one details his disapproval. "You should know better than anyone. You've done it."

Arthur's whole body goes cold. The punch hurts less than Alfred's trust.

"You live in another world, don't you?" Arthur sobs; lets a thick, scratchy sound escape his throat before he reaches into his bag and pulls out a small bag filled with tablets, so many in enough colors to outshine a rainbow. _If_ there were rainbows in the world.

Alfred blinks, and Arthur can almost see his heartbreak. He can hear his heart breaking.

"Dr. Beilschmidt," Arthur says, honestly. "He gives them to all of us _rehabilitated_. From time to time. Not always, but you have to understand that our stomachs _are_ adjusting, just slowly, certainly nowhere near fast enough. At least mine certainly isn't, not enough to keep me alive anyway."

"A—Arthur," Alfred tries to start, but Arthur doesn't let him.

"This is the truth. This is what we eat, even in your compound with fresh vegetables and all those things _you_'ve always been privileged to eat."

Alfred shakes his head, eyes glued to the ground, "no, you're lying. We don't do that at the compound."

"You might be able to help the children, but the adults? You'd be left with a dozen, if not two dozen orphans. I—I'm sorry, Alfred," Arthur murmurs, curling into himself, "but you have to touch the ground sometime. The sky is sealed shut, darling. It's about time you accepted that. I—I'm not asking you to give up. I'm just asking you to open your eyes a little bit wider."

**Next… 0**

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**Note: **I'm afraid we're in for a long ride, lovelies. Hope you won't get bored. Possibly more updates coming tonight or tomorrow. Depends on my mood and if I'm close to my laptop, I suppose. Thanks for reading! :)


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